


After Hours

by NevillesGran



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, OT3 stuff only mentioned; nothing really happens, Post-Canon, minor vandalism in the name of cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran/pseuds/NevillesGran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were strangers, and far too finely dressed for a town like Schportz. For a town like anywhere, really, even the twenty-miles-away city of Szpatzburg. Maybe for a fancy ball in a fairy story, but not real.<br/><br/>The man in front stopped pounding on the General Store door to look up with a beaming smile and shout back, “Hello, citizen! Sorry to dish- dits- bother you, but we are looking to buy some lugnuts!”<br/><br/>He pronounced it proudly as a king, with very much the tone of someone trying and failing to seem less drunk than they were.<br/><br/>“And aluminium coils,” the other man added in an only slightly steadier voice, “and a steam shaft, and wheels, and anything else we can use to build transportation that doesn’t fly.”<br/><br/>“And cake!” The girl drowned him out, not trying at all to hide her state. “We need cake!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

The Schportz General Store was disproportionately large for the town of Schportz, most likely because it was the only store in town and thus sold everything from beans to lumber to, on rare occasion when Mrs. Gunnelson made the twenty-mile trip into the City, a couple fashionable dresses. More often it sold the cloth to make those dresses, or more accurately a cheaper, cotton-based version of the cloth.

It was not, needless to say, the sort of store that was usually open at three in the morning. Four, maybe, in the summer when everyone woke early for farm chores, but not three. But the Gunnelsons lived in a couple rooms above the storefront, so they woke easily enough when someone began pounding on their front door.

“Ach, it’s those louts from the inn again,” grumbled Emalia Gunnelson, meaning the twenty-something son of the innkeeper next door and his posse of what were known to most of the adults of Schportz as “hooligans.” Emalia rolled over and shoved her head under her pillow. “I’ll be talking to his mother in the morning, you bet your bunce.”

Her husband and business partner Stefan Gunnelson, generally known as Steff, preferred a method of rapid conflict resolution. He sat up just enough to lean over, push open the window, and shout, “Get gone, you brats!  If you damage the door again, I’ll have you…”

There he trailed off, because the moon was only half-full but it was bright enough to see that this wasn’t Lem Rollitz and his no-account friends. It was three young people, two men and a woman, but they were strangers, and far too finely dressed for a town like Schportz. For a town like anywhere, really, even the twenty-miles-away city of Szpatzburg. Maybe for a fancy ball in a fairy story, but not _real._

But here they were, and the man in front stopped pounding on the Gunnelsons’ door to look up with a beaming smile and shout back, “Hello, citizen! Sorry to dish- dits- bother you, but we are looking to buy some lugnuts!”

He pronounced it proudly as a king, with very much the tone of someone trying and failing to seem less drunk than they were.

“And aluminium coils,” the other man added in an only slightly steadier voice, “and a steam shaft, and wheels, and anything else we can use to build transportation that doesn’t _fly_.”

“Hey!” said the first. “It wasn’t _my-”_

“And cake!” The girl drowned him out, not trying at all to hide her state. “We need cake!”

Steff was already pulling on his shirt and trousers. Emalia, lips pursed, passed him the scruffy electric spear that had been a gift to his grandfather from the old Duke, in the bad old days before the Heterodyne Boys. It had seen action since then, with his father in the Other War and Steff himself after the Empire collapsed. Supposedly that was all over now, but nobody in Schportz was foolish enough not to be wary when strangers came to the door.

“I’ll nip around to the inn,” she whispered, following him downstairs before slipping out the back of the storeroom. Steff gave her hand a squeeze then gritted his teeth and entered their store, ready to stride over to the front door and yank it open in the strangers’ faces.

They were already in the general store. As Steff entered, there was a hiss and the kerosene lamp by the counter lit up, held by the second young man, a redhead in a fine yellow suit. “Light!” he called. He looked quite pleased with himself.

The woman, whose wide (though somewhat dirty) green skirts were threatening to topple Stefan’s shelves, looked up from what seemed to be studious examination of the fruit selection. “So we don’t need a pickle?”

“I could still use a snack,” said the other young man, who was quite tall and well-muscled, a fact Steff could see very clearly because he had somehow lost his shirt in the two minutes it had taken the storekeeper to dress and get downstairs. Well, not lost - he was using it as a makeshift sack to hold the things the woman took off the shelves. She seemed to be grabbing things at random, and muttering to herself.

The shirtless man caught sight of Steff then. “Oh, hello!” He drew himself up and moved his arm like he meant to wave, then rethought the action before his bundle fell apart. He gave a cheery grin instead. “Don’t worry, we’ll pay for the lock, too!”

“Technically I already own everything here,” drawled the redhead. “So we don’t really have to.” He’d set the lamp on the floor and pushed everything else off the counter as well, and now lay down on the thin wooden shelf as if it was a full feather bed. He tucked his hands behinds his head and added thoughtfully, “Though I suppose that really necessitates the Russian system, while the new Storm Kingdom will be holding to more traditional feudal laws of property.” He propped himself up on one elbow to look at his companions, still balancing as easily as if he lay on the ground. “Did either of you bring money?”

“No,” the shirtless one admitted with a hangdog stare. “We’re in Wulfenbach territory anyway, so we need to figure out something.”

“The Heterodyne needs no petty money!” the woman declared, holding aloft a pair of eggs. “She requires only cake!” 

“Agatha!” The redhead swung back to a sitting position, looking scandalized. “We’re incognito!” He looked over at Steff. “You should ignore my friend,” he said earnestly. “She’s incredibly drunk.”

“So’re you.” She stuck out her tongue at him. The shirtless man giggled.

Stefan cleared his throat. “Listen, all of you,” he said sternly, or as well as he could manage. “I don’t want no trouble…”

“Don’t worry!” the redhead said cheerily, and with an absolutely fake air of innocence. “We’re just three travellers-“

“From a fancy dress party,” added the shirtless one.

“Yes, from a party, and on our way home we crashed our completely hazardous, non-functional would-be flying machine-“

“Hey!”

“-into the field about a mile down the road,” he plowed on, shooting a glare at his interrupting friend. “Which is definitely in Sturmvorous territory, by the way, as agreed upon in the treaty we- that is, the, um, people signed last week. So-”

“It is not!” the shirtless man exclaimed. He crossed his arms indignantly, still holding the makeshift bag of stuff. “Ever since we crossed the Danube-“

“How could you possibly have seen a river,” the redhead demanded, hopping off the counter, “when we were going _fifty miles an hour_ -“

Stefan was distracted from the argument by an imperious tap on his chest from the young lady. “Excuse me, sir,” she said politely but firmly. “Is that staff charged?”

He glanced down at her, and the spear he was holding somewhat defensively between them, more like a shield than a weapon. The tip crackled. “Yes?”

She smiled fiercely, cheeks red and eyes just a little too bright. “ _Excellent_. We can power cook this cake then.” And she grabbed it from his hands and strode back to her shirtless minion. “Gil! Tarvek! Cake time!”

“What, here?” he asked as she pulled the bundle out of his hands and dumped it on the floor.

“Yes! Double-chocolate fudge cake! Zeetha ate it _all_ at the ball.” Scowling with fierce determination, she sat on the floor and began pouring things into what Steff recognized as one of the earthenware bowls they were selling for five copper pieces.

He was suffering from the growing, terrified realization that he was completely out of his depths with these people, but a shopkeeper’s instincts are difficult to keep down, even when faced with a lady trying to bake a chocolate cake with apples, eggshells, and a screwdriver.

“You’d better be going to pay for that!” he said, stepping forward.

The redhead rolled his eyes. “Oh, honestly. I give my word as Storm Ki-“

“Ha!” crowed the shirtless one, stabbing his finger triumphantly at the other oung man. “Now who’s not incognito!”

The redhead looked so chagrinned that Steff felt a laugh bubbling up in his chest.

“All right!” declared the lady. She stood up, wobbling slightly but swinging Steff’s spear above her head with surprising dexterity. It knocked over a rack of canned food, and she didn’t seem to notice, though Steff had to jump back to avoid being hit. “Everyone back, I’m going to _fry_ this thing!” Grinning manically, she leveled the spear at the bowl of “cake” batter. Electricity crackled around its tip.

Stefan looked around frantically for some sort of aid, but the young men were staring at their lady with almost identical expressions of lovestruck excitement. Oh god.

Then something dark appeared on the side of her neck and, reaching up to touch it, she fell over, splattering batter all over her dress. The spear discharged as it fells, thankfully just missing the flammable linens but completely ruining the farm tools.

The redhead snatched another dart out of the air faster than Steff could see him move, and the shitless youth dropped to his knees to check the lady’s puse, a small death ray suddenly in his hand.

“Relax, it’s me!” a female voice called from outside.

“She’s just unconscious,” said the shirtless on, and the redhead relaxed slightly.

“Violetta?”

Another young lady entered the shop, wearing a pink dress with the skirts tied up around her waste. And trousers, thank the lord. Arms folded across her chest, she surveyed the shop in disgust. “Yes, of course it’s me, you idiot,” she snapped. “Who else would chase you across half of Hungary to make sure you didn’t get the lady into trouble again?”

“The flying machine was _not_ my idea,” the redhead protested.

“You got into it!” said the shirtless one.

"You promised kissing!"

“I did not need to hear that!” said the new girl. “And you're _both_ in trouble. I left Steffie making your excuses, but _I_ had to ruin my nice dress to come save your butts again, and Otilia is _furious_.”

Both young men blanched at that.

“I’ve got a jäger with a zeppelin outside,” she said, and pointed at the shirtless young man. “You carry the Lady, and I’ll haul this dope.” She jerked her thumb at the redhead, whose hair was actually only a couple shades lighter than hers.

“I can walk!” he protested, pushing himself off the counter. He took a wobbly step, and then another, and collapsed on the floor.

“The sedative can be absorbed through contact, too,” the young woman smugly informed his prone body. She grabbed him by the feet and began dragging him out. “Come on, Herr Baron.”

The shirtless young man (Steff was resolutely _not_ applying names to any of these people) picked up the lady in the green dress and, casting an apologetic look over his shoulder at the shopkeeper, follower them out the door. There was more noise outside, but Steff ignored it in favor of staring around at the shambles of his shop. Actually, it could have been worse. Only about a third of the merchandize was strewn about, and nothing was on—

Slag, the lamp had fallen over when the Stor- redhead collapsed, and the flame was lapping towards the beer barrel. Steff lunged across the room, narrowly avoiding tripping on loose cans.

The young woman in the pink dress returned just as she finished stamping out the flames. His bare feetwere already sending him the bill, but it was better than the fiery explosion of a full barrel of old-style lager.

“For your troubles,” she said, and handed him a large coin. “There are four people unconscious out back, sorry. It seemed easier.  You’ll tell them…”

“Nothing, lady,” Steff said seriously. He bit the coin—it was gold, and probably enough to buy the entire building. “Mum’s the word. Swear on my heart. Not a—“

“Thank you.” And she slipped away like a shadow, though Steff could hear her muttering. “Next time _I’ll_ spike _Theo’s_ drink, see how _he_ likes it. Aunt Muriel’s…”

Steff waited in the dark for the sound of aircraft taking off before he ventured to look outside. The moon was still aloft, the trees standing; only the dirt of het Main (only) Road was a little disturbed. So. He fingered the coin. People out back, right. Emalia would be with them, and no doubt Edmur, and whatever toughs were drinking at the inn tonight. He would probably have to tell his wife the truth, because she’d get it out of him eventually, then leave it to her to make up a more believable story for everyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Gil lost his shirt as soon as they broke in because Agatha started grabbing things and holding them in her dress and Tarvek was scandalized at that hiking up of the skirts and misuse of fashionable dress, so Gil offered his fancy clothes as a bag instead.


End file.
